


Clay.

by dollylux



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Clay court love, I just really love clay okay?, M/M, Rafa adoration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 22:19:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1758397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roger loves clay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clay.

the following photos inspired the drabble posted after. i hope you guys enjoy both and thank you for reading my late night insanity!

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/adorerdollylux/pic/00002303/)  


  


 

 

The color of clay always sent Roger Federer off into his own head. It was a color that was distinctly Rafa. It was a color that smelled warm, that tasted of summer, that looked too intense to be real. All of that was Rafa. It was a color that belonged under his sure feet, that he dusted off his beloved baseline like it was religion. It was a color that he associated with Rafa's fingers, fingers that were sometimes wrapped in tape because too much time playing tennis, too tight of a grip on a racket for too long. The blinding brown orange-red always stained that stark white tape over the course of a match, it always darkened his already brown skin when he collapsed on the court's surface after his victory which was almost always inevitable. It would cover him then, stain his clothes, his shoulders, the back of his head, the backs of those strong legs. When Roger saw the clay, he could almost hear the scrape-scrape-scrape of Rafa sliding so smoothly over it, gliding as if he were born to exist solely on its surface. There was a rhythm to Rafa on clay, a certain grace that no one else possessed, neither there or anywhere else on earth. There was a musicality to his movement, an instrument which Roger could never place but which he heard when he played Rafa there, which he heard while he watched him. Once Roger even licked his first two fingers and dipped it into the clay, glancing first one way and then the other before he pressed the tips of his fingers against his tongue, not quite knowing what he was expecting but finding himself disappointed when it didn't taste how it looked. It seemed it would be spicy, maybe a distinctly Spanish flavor, one that was imbued with an Arabic cuisine. Food that belonged on Rafa's table. It sometimes felt unnatural to play Rafa on grass which felt too proper, too stiff for him. It felt even stranger on hard courts: too stark, too ugly in comparison. Rafa would always be that clay, and Roger could never wait for that part of the season. It was secretly his favorite.


End file.
